


Set This Thing On Fire

by WetSammyWinchester



Series: Wincest Writing Challenge fics [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Episode: s03e16 No Rest For The Wicked, Pre-Series, Salt And Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: Sometimes the worst ghosts are those in our hearts.Written for Wincest Writing Challenge prompt of salt and burn.





	

**1995 - Bangor, Maine**

“But, why salt?” Sam shifted from foot to foot as he stood next to the open grave. The salt inside the metal canister made a soft s-s-s-s noise as he moved it from one hand to the next. “I mean, you’re gonna burn the bones. That seems pretty final to me.”

They’d finally agreed that, at twelve years old, Sam could join them on his first salt-and-burn. The rules were clear - Sam would be relegated to shovel holder and salt carrier while his dad and brother took point in dealing with the spirit.

John wiped his brow leaving a dark smudge across his forehead and then pulled himself out of the grave. The dirt piled to the side smelled moldy and Sam wasn’t sure how the two of them could stand it. Looking up at John, who was sweaty and covered in that dirt, it seemed nothing could effect his father.

“It has to do with purification. Salt helps connect the ghost back to the earth and to its bones. Then we send the spirit on its way by burning the bones.” John said, and then signaled Sam, who shook out grains all along the opening. 

As he moved along the eight-foot long hole, he stared at the uncovered dirt walls of the grave with its small roots and rocks imbedded there and back up to the granite headstone of Mrs. Evelyn Whitsett. Anywhere but at the glimpse of white bones lying below him in the broken casket.

The spectre appeared before Sam had finished with the salt. He was knocked to the ground hard, his head bouncing off a rock. The shrieking noise it made was unbearable, but it was cut short as Dad swung an iron crowbar that cut Mrs. Whitsett in half.

Sam looked over at his brother who was moving swiftly on the opposite side of the grave. Dean poured out the gasoline and then held an open packet of matches in his hand. Their eyes connected, and Dean gave him a quick grin before lighting them up. In that orange-yellow sulfur flare for the split second before he dropped the matchbook into the hole, Dean’s face shone bright against the surrounding darkness.

As Mrs Whitsett’s bones burned below them, John extended his hand and pulled Sam to his feet. “Good job. You and Dean make quite a team.”

His brother jogged over, and pushed Sam’s hair aside to check the scrape on his cheek. Sam made a noise and shoved Dean’s hand away. The smell of gas and smoke turned his stomach. He wiped his mouth and looked back at his brother.

“So, is she happy now?”

Dean cocked his head to the side, as he grabbed the crowbar and shovel off the ground. “Is who happy?”

“The ghost. After you salt and burn its body. Is she happy now?”

Dean paused and exchanged a quick look with John before handing Sam the salt canister. “Sure. I guess so.”

Sam glanced at the burning grave, and then ran to catch up with his brother and dad who were already walking through the gate without a look back.

 

**2001 - Kearney, Nebraska**

Standing in the drizzling rain of a Nebraska bus station, a ticket to California in his hand, Sam thought of that night. It had been his rite of passage - his krypteia. Dean had patched up Sam’s cut back at the motel room, his gentle fingers applying antibiotic cream and butterfly bandages under dim bathroom light, while their dad ordered pizza.

It was a good memory to pull out when things went to shit. And tonight, it all went to shit.

The sound of the Impala’s engine as it pulled in the bus station parking lot made his heart beat faster. He knew that Dean would follow him here. He also knew that Dean would never leave their father.

“Sam, c’mon, get in the car. Talk to me about this.” The cockiness of that night so long ago was replaced by desperation as Dean walked up. “You don’t need to leave right now. Let’s find a place to talk.”

Raindrops splashed across Dean’s cheeks and caught on the ends of his eyelashes, and Sam struggled to remember if they ever had to salt and burn a corpse in the rain. There was that time in Akron. The dirt had been slick and heavy as they struggled to dig out the coffin. After all that work, the matches wouldn’t light, no matter how much the two of them tried to protect them from the wet wind. In the end, Dean had pulled out his favorite Zippo lighter, a heavy nickel one that Bobby had given him. Ever faithful, the Zippo stayed lit and Dean threw it into the grave without a thought.

 _Salt for purification_ , Sam thought. _Bring the soul back to earth, back to its body, so you can send it on its way_. “No. Nothing to discuss, Dean. I’m going to California.”

His brother ran a hand through his wet hair, making little droplets shake off with the motion. Sam wished he had a camera with him to capture the image, to keep it in his pocket always.

“Maybe I could meet up with you there. It would be easy to–”

“No. I don’t want you to.” His abrupt answer caused Dean to look up, searching Sam’s face. _Now’s the time to light the match and set this thing on fire_.

The two of them had been dancing around whatever this was between them for months. Since spring had turned to summer, there had been touches and looks. They had skirted the line, quiet whispers in the dark while John was gone on a trip, but Dean hadn’t taken it further. Sam needed it, and the need grew and floated like a ghost, hovering between their double beds in every cheap motel room they stayed in, their dad’s snores keeping it at bay.

Sam tried to talk to Dean. His brother dodged the conversation, which was easy because something this big, something this important, couldn’t be discussed over pancakes with their dad sitting next to them.

The situation would continue to eat away at the two of them. Sam needed to leave hunting and Dean would never leave John. It didn’t matter how much they wanted to be together in the end, because those two things could never exist in the same world.

Better to kill it off quickly then wait around for their feelings to turn bitter and die a slow death. Better that Dean went back and forgot about Sam, then stay and learn to hate him.

 _Salt and burn time_.

The big Greyhound bus rolled up in front of him and opened its doors with a hydraulic hiss. Sam picked up the duffel bag at his feet, and Dean went to help him. Their eyes met for a moment and then Sam looked away. “I don’t want you to follow me. I don’t want you to call me. Just leave me alone, Dean.”

He stepped up on the bus and didn’t look back.

 

**2008 - Pontiac, Illinois**

Bobby said salt and burn. Several times. He insisted on it and when Sam said no for the third time, Bobby packed up his Chevelle and took off for Sioux Falls. And then the old man drove back to Pontiac two hours later to argue it one more time.

This time there would be no salt and matches, because Sam had no intention of sending off Dean’s spirit to whatever comes next. He already knew what that was - an eternity of hell. He wasn’t about to make that permanent by destroying Dean’s body. There had to be a way to bring his brother back and Sam was going to find out what that was.

And if he didn’t– well, Sam would be joining him soon enough.

Sam finished tamping off the loose dirt on the top of the grave with the back of the shovel head, and gathered up his gear to head for the car. He stepped carefully through the trees that hid the grave from the main road, and didn’t look back.


End file.
